


Lesser Evils

by Steerpike13713



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Corruption, Culture Shock, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, New Orleans, Past Brainwashing, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steerpike13713/pseuds/Steerpike13713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tara's mother died, she knew she couldn't tolerate her life as it had been any longer. Running away with a chaos-mage to become his new apprentice was probably not the best way to deal with the situation, admittedly, but it was a bit late now to bother about regretting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesser Evils

New Orleans could not have been more different from Oregon, and maybe it was that which made her warm to the city so quickly. Or maybe it was just that, after most of a week in Ethan’s car, wending their way southwards, she was desperate to spend two nights in a row in one place. There’s something magical about the city in her memory – not the sort of magic she learnt from her mother and grandmother, balanced and calm and rooted in the earth like a tree, but something altogether stranger, wilder, less kind. It reminds her of Ethan, a little, in the darkness and the danger and the excitement of it. Even now, in her mind, New Orleans is linked with the Spanish moss that hung curling in delicate fingers from the latticework, the perfume from the jasmine vine that wound its way up the side of their tenement building, heady and almost oppressive and unlike anything she’d known before. The streets were never quiet there, a constant stippling of noise always present at the edge of her consciousness, the sounds of human feet and car engines, the midnight ruttings of the young couple who’d taken the upstairs apartment and the crickets chirping in the humid night. If Tara were to close her eyes now, and think of New Orleans, it would be the _sound_ of it she remembered, the lazy melody of the sleeping city so utterly unlike the quiet of the farm in Oregon where she had expected to live out all her days that she had been almost dizzy with it all the time they had stayed there.

It was already the tail end of summer, but that seemed to mean something different in Louisiana than it did back home, and by the time she’d finished carrying her small suitcase up to the apartment they were renting in one of the more run-down sections of the Mid-City, Tara had already been drenched in sweat and longing for a shower.

“Here,” Mr Rayne – she had still called him that, then – had said, when he ran into her in the pre-furnished hall of their new apartment, taking the box from her arms and setting it down before pressing his palm to her back, just between the shoulder-blades. Tara remembered she had gasped at the flare of power, and the cool breeze that seemed to spring up moments later, running across her skin like a needle through cloth. She had stared up at him, open-mouthed. Such open displays of magic had been unthinkable at home, and not just because of her father’s temper or the threat of the demon bubbling up if the power was not used sparingly.

“Y-you shouldn’t have done that,” she said, the shock for the moment overwhelming her natural timidity. “I- M-my mom always s-said, you shouldn’t-”

Mr Rayne smirked at her. It was not an altogether kind expression, and Tara flinched, ready for the blow. But all he did was, slowly, carefully, tilt her chin up slightly to look her in the face, “Here’s the thing,” he said, still smirking slightly. “Excellent a practitioner as your mother may have been…she couldn’t get you out of there,” he brushed a few stray hairs from Tara’s face, the same hands Tara has seen wielding a sacrificial dagger with deadly skill oddly gentle then, “Ever wonder why that was?”

Tara shook her head, and swallowed dryly. Just because Mr Rayne hadn’t lifted a hand to her yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t. It only meant she hadn’t found the thing that would drive him to it yet. Mom would’ve known what to do, but Mom wasn’t there. Tara still doesn’t know whether she’s sorry for that or not, because Mom would never have approved of the person Tara is now, but if Mom were still here now, Tara would still be in Oregon, and she might never have left.

 “There are some theories,” Mr Rayne had admitted, “Which say restraint is key to success in magic – that being able _not_ to do magic is more important than the power itself.” He shrugged, “There are also some who hold,” he added, much more sharply now, “That that’s a load of pretentious bollocks mainly spouted by the sort of idiot who’s frightened of their own power but wants to puff themselves up anyway.” Tara gave a little start, and Mr Rayne smiled wolfishly at her. “You can probably guess which camp I fall into,” he added, wry and charming once again.

“M-mom w-wasn’t-” Tara started, her stammer heavier now than ever before, and Mr Rayne arched an eyebrow.

“Wasn’t what? Pretentious I’ll give you, but scared?” he gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “I saw the sort of state you were in when your cousin saw you, and I saw how nervy she looked, as well,” he said, “Your mum had the same sort of upbringing as you by the sound of it, lived the same sort of life. I’ll bet you had every expectation your life would turn out just the same way, and no-one stays in a situation like that unless they’re scared of _something_.” There was real bitterness in his voice, and for a moment Tara couldn’t think of anything to say. How could she tell him? Tell him what it was her mother had feared, what all of them had feared, from the moment they were old enough to understand what it was that gave the women of the Maclay family their power. But whatever else Mr Rayne was – rogue, charlatan, chaos-worshipper, criminal – Tara couldn’t imagine he’d relish the thought of travelling with the creature she’d become when the promise of her blood came due. And had it really been so very wrong, to want some way out? To use magic to get away from that, from her father’s cold rages and Donny’s rough hands, from Beth’s sneering and the expectation hanging over her like a miasma, that she would live out all her life there and never see anything beyond that? Could it really be so wrong to _try_?

She had known too well what her father or Beth or Donny would have to say about her current circumstances – Beth had made it all too clear when she saw Tara talking to Mr Rayne the day of the funeral, the day she had gone to him and begged for him to take her with him because she _couldn’t live another day like this_. So far, Beth’s suppositions seemed unfounded – Mr Rayne hadn’t touched her once, hadn’t so much as looked at her – but that wouldn’t stop her father from sneering, from insisting that the world worked as he said it did because he couldn’t imagine the sort of man who would see a desperate runaway and not want to take advantage. Tara had offered, that first night in their rattrap motel by the freeway, because if it was going to happen anyway then it would be on her own terms, but Mr Rayne just laughed and told her that he was ‘bent as the proverbial nine bob’, and not to worry about it.

Mr Rayne had seemed to take her silence as condemnation, because he lifted her chin again, more gently this time, to look her full in the eyes. “Given how much she was able to teach you, I’d say your mum had a few more wits about her than most of that crowd,” he said, “But that doesn’t make it any less true. And maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’d have asked to come with me, knowing what I was, if you wanted to live your life the same way.”

“N-no, sir,” Tara muttered, feeling the shame roiling in her. She should have stayed, she knew. It would have been the right, the _responsible_ thing to do. The demon that was inside her would only grow more and more violent, less and less controllable the longer she stayed away. But- she couldn’t go back to that, she _couldn’t_. Mr Rayne had stared down at her for a few moments, before shaking his head and moving away, muttering something to himself that sounded like ‘get a grip’ or possibly ‘ripper’. Tara hadn’t thought to pry further, not at the time, too busy being relieved that things hadn’t escalated further. The next few days had been too hectic to think much about anything, even if they didn’t need to unpack. Mr Rayne seemed to live out of his car, for the most part, renting or squatting at need, and even then appeared to keep his suitcase already packed in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Tara didn’t have enough possessions then for unpacking to even be a consideration. She’d brought nothing but a few books, her grandmother’s Doll’s Eye crystal and a single change of clothes when she’d fled the farm to meet Mr Rayne – could it have been only a handful of days ago? Even without unpacking and settling in, however, Mr Rayne’s business with the Baron was apparently more complicated than it had seemed at first.

Tara wasn’t technically confined to the apartment, or at least, Mr Rayne hadn’t said she was, but she didn’t much like the thought of venturing out into New Orleans, with her family still looking for her. She didn’t think there’d be a full manhunt, her family wouldn’t be able to explain to the police why they needed her back so desperately, but if they knew she’d gone with Mr Rayne – and they _would_ know, Beth would have told them the moment they realised she was gone – they would know to look further afield. She bought clothes at Goodwill a few streets away, kept her head down and didn’t draw attention to herself, spent hour after hour curled up in the corner armchair in the apartment, reading Mr Rayne’s books and listening to the deal being thrashed out between him and the Baron Cimitière.

“-hired you because I thought you knew what you were doing,” she remembers the Baron in his smooth, deep voice.

Mr Rayne arched an eyebrow. “It’s _chaos_ , Cimitière. You should have expected it to be somewhat unpredictable.” His eyes caught Tara’s where she was sitting with her book lying abandoned in her lap. He grinned at her and she, emboldened by the rush of power through the apartment that set the lights to flickering, smiled shyly back. Cimitière’s gaze followed Mr Rayne’s. His lip curled. Tara glanced down at her book, realising suddenly how this arrangement must seem to an outsider. Beth’s taunts were still ringing in her ears, so that she could hardly hear the Baron’s next words.

“Your apprentice would do well not to listen in on conversations that don’t concern her,” he said roughly. “I wanted discretion, Rayne.”

“Discretion,” Mr Rayne repeated, raising his eyebrows, “Of course. Because my sort are so well-known for our ability to keep our mouths shut and not draw attention to ourselves.”

Tara had hidden her face behind her book to conceal her smile at that before the rest of what Cimitière had said sank in. Mr Rayne’s apprentice, he had called her. Was she that, now? It was a better title than her father would have given their arrangement, to be sure, where she lived under his roof and listened to his dealings without offering anything but herself in return. Leech was the kindest name he’d have given her, and his speculations would have been worse. But- To be an apprentice, that was a permanent thing. Far more permanent than what she’d begged of him on the night of her mother’s funeral, when all she’d cared about was getting as far away from the farm and her family and everything to do with her life as it had been as it was possible to go. And even if she were, Mr Rayne had not offered her teaching. He’d allowed her to read what books of magic he had, though they were comparatively few and have been read so many times that their bindings were almost falling to pieces, but that was the extent of it. She didn’t hear the rest of the argument, so caught up in puzzling it over, and only noticed it had ended when She was only half-listening to the rest of the argument, until Cimitière stormed out, unsatisfied and fuming, and left the two of them alone.

Mr Rayne scrubbed a hand over his face and fished a bottle of what looked like whisky and two glasses from one of the cupboards in the tiny kitchenette in the corner. He looked worn, but cheerful enough as he poured two glasses and pushed one across their narrow kitchen Tara, gesturing to the chair opposite his for her to come and sit by him.

“Don’t know why he’s bothering, really,” he confided, as Tara took a small, cautious sip of the whisky and only barely restrained herself from choking at the burn as it went down. “If you want a bacchanal in this city all you have to do is go out and start one, and never mind the magic. Still,” he grinned, bright and sharp and wicked. “It gives us something to do. How are you getting on with your reading?”

“F-fine. That is-” Tara bit her lip, glancing down at her glass. “It’s- It’s n-not something I’ve done before,” she admitted in a low voice. “This sort of magic, it’s-” she broke off, not sure what to say. Her mother would have called it evil. So would her father, though that didn’t count for much. It gave her an odd, guilty thrill even to think such a thing, but it was no less true for that. And anyway, Mr Rayne didn’t _feel_ evil. Capricious, yes, and sometimes cruel, with a vicious sense of humour and few real moral scruples to speak of, but that didn’t make him _evil_.

“I’d have been surprised if it was,” Mr Rayne assured her. “There are a couple of exercises in there which might help you get acclimatised to it before we move on.”

Tara swallowed. “W-will that be soon?”

“End of the week, I expect,” Mr Rayne replied, taking a much longer, more appreciative sip of his own whisky. “As soon as this spell’s run its course.”

“Wouldn’t it b-be wiser to l-leave as soon as it’s cast?” Tara asked, trying not to picture the havoc in store.

Mr Rayne shrugged. “Probably. But, you see,” he went on, “If I have a fault,” (his tone of voice made it quite clear that he considered this quite a distant possibility) “It’s that I never know when to cut my losses. I’ll stay and gloat if it kills me. Which, at this rate, it might well do.” He grinned at her, another bright flash of teeth. It felt odd, companionable, and Tara couldn’t help but smile back at him. She wasn’t naïve enough even then to think that he wasn’t using her for something, though she had yet to work out exactly what. There was a kind of security in that knowledge. If he was only ever using her, all she had to do was make sure she was useful. She could _do_ useful. She drained the whisky in one this time, even if the burn still made her eyes water, and drew the book towards her to look for those exercises.

“It needn’t be _now_ ,” Mr Rayne said, raising an eyebrow. “There’s a whole city out there – drink, drugs, bright young things of pretty much any gender you might fancy…I know I leapt at the chance after I made my first break for it.” He smirked at her, sharp and wry and vicious. “Freedom never lasts as long as you think it will. You might as well make the most of it while it lasts.”

Tara felt the blush rising now. “I- I thought we w-were supposed to be k-keeping a low p-profile,” she said nervously, eyes flicking to the door. “M-my family, they’ll be-”

“Looking for you?” Mr Rayne asked. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Mine certainly didn’t.”

Tara shook her head. “I-it’s not- That’s d-di-”

“Different?” Mr Rayne asked, “I’m sure you think so.”

Tara swallowed. “You don’t understand, it’s- They’ll want me back. They won’t-” she broke off again, terrified.

Mr Rayne arched an eyebrow at her. “Why on earth would they want that? They don’t seem to value you that highly, the way you talk about it.”

“It’s- It’s not for my sake,” Tara replied. “The demon- It’s too dangerous- People could-”

“What demon, Tara?” Mr Rayne asked, voice pleasant, and deceptively calm.

Tara swallowed, bile rising in her throat. “Y-you’ll hate me,” she said in a small voice “You’ll s-send me b-back.”

“Would I?” Mr Rayne asked, raising an eyebrow. “It seems a lot of effort. And I’m not nearly as public-spirited as you seem to believe.”

Tara swallowed. “I’m a demon,” she said, words tumbling over each other. “All of us- All the women in my family have it in us. That’s- That’s where the m-magic comes f-from, and the more we use it, the w-worse it gets. M-my mom had it, and it killed her, trying to r-resist it. That’s what g-gave her the cancer.”

“Really,” Mr Rayne said, plainly disbelieving.

Tara bristled at that. “I’m not lying!”

“I never said you were,” Mr Rayne replied, with a wry twist of a smile, “What kind of demon are you going to turn into, then?”

“W-what?”

“What kind of demon?” Mr Rayne repeated, taking another slug of whisky. “If it’s a chaos demon, we’re going to have a problem, because useful as some as their powers might be…” he winced, and gave her an assessing look. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t miss the practical benefits of having a pretty blonde ingénue for an accomplice, but some sorts of demon might be just as useful in this lie of work.”

Tara startled, spilling her whisky, and stared up at him, unable to quite believe her ears. “Y-you don’t mind?” she asked, stumbling over her words.

“Steady on,” Mr Rayne said irritably, taking the tumbler from her hands. “Don’t want to waste any of that – it’s good stuff.”

“Yeah. S-sorry- But- You- you really don’t mind, that I- I’m a-”

He rolled his eyes. “Half the people I work for are demons, Cimitière is a vampire and I used to summon demons for fun. Nearly got me killed, of course, but…” he shrugged, and made a dismissive gesture, as if that were a minor inconvenience and not something that really merited much concern. “So, what sort of demon are you?”

“I- I didn’t know there were d-different kinds,” Tara muttered, feeling suddenly rather foolish.

Mr Rayne smirked at her. “Most people don’t. So, what did your dad have to day about the sort of thing you’d have to expect if it happened? Slime, antlers, mysterious compulsion to amateur dramatics…”

“No! He- Um….he wasn’t really…they didn’t tell us much about…” she could feel her face heating up, and wished she could have another gulp of whisky, no matter how uncomfortable the burn had been.

Mr Rayne was looking satisfied again. “I think I understand. So, why don’t we assume for the time being that your father was lying through his teeth and you’re not actually a demon, but even in the _extremely_ unlikely event that I’m wrong…” he gave her another sly, sidelong smirk. “I’ve no particular problem with having a demon apprentice.”

“Am I your apprentice, then?” Tara asked, watching him with wide eyes. “I- He called me that, before.”

Mr Rayne snorted. “Well, yes. What else did you expect to happen? You’re a talented girl, and you’ve got more of a devious streak than you like to admit. You thought I’d refuse to make a go of shaping all that potential?”

 _Potential_. The word sounded…strange, applied to her. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Not quite something she could believe described plain, gangling Tara Maclay with her long skirts and scraped elbows, the one of her many cousins most touched by the demon of the Maclays. But for once there was no mockery in Mr Rayne’s face, and if this was a joke, she couldn’t see the humour in it.

“Give it a couple of years, and you’ll surpass me,” Mr Rayne said, as sincere as ever she’d heard him, another of those smiles that was just on this side of cruel twisting his mouth. “I’d bet you’ll make a _magnificent_ chaos-mage, with a bit of training.”

Was it wrong, that it pleased her to hear it? She grinned, and summoned the tumbler of whisky into her hand. Her first frivolous act of magic. It felt good – better than she could have imagined.

“And- and you want to train me?” she repeated, not quite able to believe the words.

Mr Rayne rolled his eyes. “I despise repeating myself. Yes, I want you for my apprentice. There’s so much more you can do with a two-man con.” He clinked his glass against hers and drained it. “You can start by going out and enjoying yourself for a bit. Make the most of it! Chaos can’t live on books alone.”

“I- I wouldn’t know how-”

Mr Rayne waved an airy hand. “Oh, I’m sure I could name a few places,” he said, giving her another wicked, wolfish grin. “For the sake of your education, of course.”

“Of course,” Tara echoed, a quite unaccustomed smirk sliding onto her face. There were worse things to be in this world than a chaos-mage, she reminded herself. She’d seen and lived with a few of them. Whatever Mr Rayne’s faults might be, he’d never lied to her, and the rest of it she could live with.

With a flick of her fingers, she levitated the bottle, had it pour them both fresh glasses of golden-brown whisky. It felt like freedom.


End file.
